


forgiving what is faultless

by bluebellbygones



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Other, hollow tries very hard to forgive themselves, hornet is exasperated at all times, kind of, most of this angsting is internal; pk angst is an outlier and should not be counted, pk is a tired self deprecating idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellbygones/pseuds/bluebellbygones
Summary: The King lives on, if only in the vaguest way possible. Hollow unwittingly journeys to see him again.
Relationships: The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Hornet, The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & The Pale King
Comments: 9
Kudos: 106





	forgiving what is faultless

**Author's Note:**

> A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world. -Oscar Wilde

The Hollow Knight had very little to do with themselves nowadays.

Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be any bother. During their time at the palace as they trained, molted, and grew, or when they were locked away with only an enraged god for any semblance of company, any time they were not given some sort of task or problem to surmount was thought to be a reprieve. A chance to be by themselves just for a moment, to breathe and brace for the plunge back into the sun itself, so to speak.

But now they had entirely too much time to themselves. Their sister- among all of their siblings she was the only one with a name, and yet they had so much trouble remembering it, having learned it so long ago- had insisted they rest after their release from the temple. It was not something they fully understood even now, but with their sister’s threads of Soul piercing their carapace and sealing up wounds with mad amounts of stitching, they resisted their desire- no, their need- to move excessively, for fear that their wounds would reopen. But that, in turn, made them restless, always tempted to scratch the itch urging them further beyond the Crossroads. Even if there was something left for them to do now, their sister would prevent them from doing it, for the sake of their health. If they were honest, however, they cared very little about their state of being at the moment; if they cared at all, it was so as to not upset their sister, who, while being only marginally fussy, was fussy nonetheless. Every time they’d tried to go back down beyond the Crossroads, even somewhere like Greenpath, she’d stopped them and scolded them, admonished them over the chance that their wounds would come unstitched. But that mattered to them so little. What mattered more was not making her worry.

So they now sat beside the Elderbug on the wrought iron bench, watching the navy sky turn a dim purple. It was a process, one Elderbug was likely not fully awake for. They wondered why he liked to come outside in the morning and watch the sun rise. Maybe because it hadn’t done so in time immemorial. Maybe to him, it was an event that was precious and worth seeing.

To Hollow, it was meant as a reminder that not all light burned. Even then, they shuddered at how warm it made them feel as the sun reflected off their mask, bright and blinding. But it remained the closest thing to doing something with their time besides their regular visit below, so they stayed, even when that odd creature, a strange, samely size and shape of their elder sibling, came to prattle on about accomplishments and life guidelines that sounded like falsehoods. He had no proof these things were truths, and he was easy enough to ignore- they couldn’t remember his name either, though they were sure he’d said it enough times- and they would share their morning with Elderbug instead, listening to his quiet stories.

He talked of their elder sibling somewhat often, commenting fondly that they had been the primary source- or perhaps cause- of any excitement the town had seen in an age, saying they often came to rest on the very same bench, rearranging their charms, scribbling things down on the cluster of sheets and pins that created their map of Hollownest, and sometimes seemingly sleeping there before heading off somewhere else. Sometimes west, to the cliffs, sometimes east, to the crystal mountain, but more often than not, down into the well. Elderbug remarked how they were such a little thing, and from what Cornifer had relayed on the state of the world below, he was amazed that the little one had managed to survive and return as often as they did.

The Hollow Knight had never really had a chance to know the elder sibling who’d saved them, the one whose fall they’d witnessed, but they missed them nonetheless.

Like any morning similar to this one, when the sky turned pale pink they got up from the bench, waved a goodbye to Elderbug, then gently lowered themselves down using the new lift into Hollownest.

On the occasional escapades to the kingdom below that they made in the absence of their sister, they visited the Temple of the Black Egg. The mask of their sibling still remained, and at one point they’d even gone as far as to retrieve a delicate flower from the Queen’s Gardens (after pricking themselves on the thorns the size of their arm repeatedly, their sister had never let them hear the end of it) and allowed it to wreath itself around the shattered porcelain, embracing it. It was where they found themselves later that day, on their routine visit, absently poking at a blossom emerging from an eye socket, petals falling off at the slightest touch of their claw. They scattered about their legs, almost indistinguishable from the shards of the mask; if they had the presence of mind to count, they’d find at least ten. Despite this, the flower had many more petals on it yet, and only looked minimally ragged.

The little ghost’s possessions were mostly taken and kept as memoirs; Hornet had taken up temporary lodgings in Dirtmouth and bundled up their charms, map, and various treasures in their mothwing cloak, setting them to rest upon a stand with nothing else on it.

“These may be useful, should we have need of them in the future.” she had told Hollow. “And...” her shoulders sagged slightly. “I must admonish my lack of faith.”

Hollow had no idea what she was talking about, but they were unable to pry. She never mentioned it again.

The possessions left to make up a gravesite consisted of their mask, the flower, their nail, and a second, much smaller, much stranger nail. It had an emblem used to represent the matters of dreams at the juncture where the blade ended and the handle began. It looked incredibly inefficient at cutting anything, but it was saturated by dreams and by souls, something that made it thrum with energy when Hollow touched the handle. Their sister remarked that their late sibling had used that particular nail upon them during the battle in the black egg, and seemingly rid them, and everything else, of the infection. The Radiance was only able to manifest in dreams, so it must’ve been a device in which a bug of the waking world could enter the realm of dreams.

The last item was a charm, inky black save for two pure white eyesockets; it bore similar countenance to a shade. Their sister had tried to pick it up but it’d held fast to the small puddle of void that remained upon the ground, unwilling to move. She’d then claimed it wasn’t a matter to agonize over and left it be after a few attempts, but Hollow wondered if it had been disappointing for her.

Hollow picked up the nail, so tiny in the hands clearly not meant for it. It was more befitting to call it a dagger for their stature. Yet it hummed with a quiet power, the vibrations of voices moving through the handle, and it felt warm. Hollow dropped it as if they’d been scalded, bundling away as it clanged on the ground.

How had their sibling managed to hold it for any prolonged amount of time, with so many dreams buzzing about inside? Hollow had barely been able to tolerate just the one.

Though, if they could admit, it drew them in some strange way. The void within their carapace seemed to simmer at the sight of it, without reaching the boiling point. They felt the same looking upon the charm as well, though it was out of recognition; a piece of their birthplace made manifest and set free into the heart of their kin, something that united the shades with its influence.

Hollow wondered. They wondered about the nail that cut through dreams- a dreamnail, they supposed. How did their sibling use it? Was it purely intuitive? Would it respond only to their command, or was there a trick to it? And the charm...

It was really such an impulsive thing, but after ages repressing such compulsions the sweet, sick freedom they now had made them cave to their slightest itch to action instantly. They picked up the nail in their hand, bracing for a burn they never came, and held it the way the little ghost of Hollownest might have, crouching over the black charm stuck to the floor.

The Dreamnail flared with a purple light and, dragging their arm along with it, came swiftly down upon the charm.

The world exploded into a familiar burst of soft yellows and oranges, contrasted by the dark blues that dyed any shadow, and the Vessel was presented with an abyss of dream below them, lingering below the floating bit of land that held their feet. They rose carefully, dreamnail still clutched in their hand, surveying their surroundings. Before them lay a single, uninterrupted strip of land that stretched far, far off into the horizon, only broken up with the detail of conjured lampposts, wrought iron fences, and the moth-made ornamentation that hung from them. They knew not where they were exactly, but figured they had enough time to find out. So, they began to walk.

It spanned out for some time, the scenery barely changing. Hollow, upon gazing downward as they walked, could swear that the tiny pebbles that cobbled the road were exactly the same pattern as they had been a few oaces before. The clouds below them were too bright, too orange, however, so they averted their gaze and refused to be bothered by it for a whole five minutes afterward.

Examining and puzzling over the ground as they walked further prevented them from seeing the massive structure slowly coming into view, though they did end up realizing the dream was losing much of its color, turning to shades of white and grey, forcing them to examine their surroundings.

Two collapsed Kingsmoulds stood guard and the once pearly gates, now dilapidated and festering with small growths of an unknown plant that was pitch black in color. Similarly, the same plant grew through the cracks of the ground before them leading in, inky flowers blooming in the cream colored sunlight, petals blowing off at the slightest gust of wind or the smallest brush of a carapace.

As the Hollow Knight slowly reached the threshold the light began to dim, the sky began to darken. Like dye that swirled about in water, the palace became murky grey, blooming across the once immaculate arcading, now crumbling and weathered. Flowers bloomed everywhere within. Kingsmoulds and Wingsmoulds lay desiccated along the smooth marble floor, void pouring from their form and turning the floor black along with the rest of the interior. Their shells provided a tiny sheen of metallic light that Hollow used as a marker, as things were far harder to see the further they went. But they were used to seeing and feeling through the darkness.

Other than the influx of void, the lack of retainers and nobles, and the moulds laying still rather than on their usual patrols, the palace in was still the same. Beautiful, pristine, sharp. Onyx columns and parapets elegantly sculpted and covered in foliage that had somehow managed to retain a white sheen, even with the foreign blooms lurking among them; their presence didn’t seem malignant in some unexplainable way. Dust caught in the dimmed light filtering in from the windows, skylights, and lamps that, miraculously, still had lumaflies fluttering about inside. The furniture in nearly all the rooms was draped in white cloth, making the place feel cold, uninhabited for centuries. Though, it likely really had been that long.

The Hollow Knight wondered if their nursery had survived this flood.

Loathe as they might’ve been to admit it, they had a fond recollection of that place. The Queen, their mother, kept a music box wound when she wasn’t there to sing to them, or if her voice gave out. They’d fallen asleep to the gentle rock of her voice at their cradle until they outgrew it after their first molt, limbs too gangly to fit without cramping. They’d missed it, and never thought they’d be given the chance to see it again.

Although, thinking now wasn’t nearly as discouraged as it had been back then. Their head swirled as they stood in a place where they’d ordinarily be fighting to keep it blank.

The Hollow Knight took the lift up to their old room, watching the light on their shell gleam and fade as the windows passed them by, an arm raised in curiosity. With a jerk it stopped, not as well oiled as it used to be, but they didn’t so much as flinch as they stepped out into the hallway.

They stopped in the dead center.

From the room that was played the sift sound of a music box, echoing off the pitch black hall. Accompanying it was a light, brighter than any of the moulds, that shone through the gap in the doorway.

A form, something dream made, lingered ahead. A twisting rope of essence, writhing this way and that, sometimes stretching and changing shape in certain ways that gave the impression that it was attempting to choose a form to take; it radiated dim and pale, a would-be shining white that reflected off the glossy black floors and walls, flickering slightly, vaguely reminding Hollow of the aging lumaflies in the outer halls.

They entered so as to see the being more clearly.

Their father turned from their cradle to see their approach. 

“Oh.” he said.

The essence seemed to decide on a shape to take; it turned into the king, or at least an approximation of him, glowing more than he usually did, the edges of the figure hazy and undefined. But they recognized the horn made crown, the train of his robes, the shape of his mask, the sharp, purifying light that he radiated.

They immediately knelt, if only on instinct. Their father, his voice muffled and warped as though underwater, laughed quietly. “You needn’t bother with such formality at this point, noble knight. I’m hardly anything that resembles the god I used to be.”

He wasn’t even using royal speech anymore, speaking the way he did only in the presence of the people he loved and trusted most, and yet they couldn’t bring themselves to look up, or stand, or do anything besides hide their trembling. He sighed.

“Rise to face us.” he ordered.

They rose to face him. But they did not- could not- look at him.

There was silence, long and still, and both parties couldn’t form any words to say.

“You’ve lost an arm.” the king commented mildly. They almost nodded affirmation, but self discipline, still augmented after all this time, kept their head still. This prompted another sigh.

“You need not restrain yourself anymore.” the king said, slightly exasperated, but not without patience. “I only linger as a memory, or dream. And beyond that, the problem I attempted to solve has been eradicated completely.” Something in his gaze seemed sad, as he looked at them with their head still bowed. “I’m just an imprint of grief on someone else’s person. Nothing more.”

This got their head to snap up, though they regretted it immediately. But his lack of reaction allowed them to hold eye contact, searching for any sign of disapproval toward their actions. There was none.

“I’ve been stained with the void, now. After merging with the heart of it.” the wyrm said. “And I can see now that... any path I would have set you on would have ended in failure, no matter what.”

Hollow’s nonexistent heart plummeted. If there was anything they’d tried to avoid, it was failure; though they might not have been truly hollow, they’d done everything in their power to hold the infection at bay. For everyone’s sake. And until now, that had been enough.

They’d gotten complacent. They’d thought it a reprieve when they should have seen it as the punishment it was. They’d failed, and now were forced to live in a world where others suffered for their mistakes.

Like their sister, like their sibling, like their mother. Like their father.

“Through no fault of your own,” he amended, as if sensing their thoughts. “I thought... the darkness could swallow everything, even the harshest of dreams, or brightest of lights. And while that may hold true, it does not mean nothing can linger within it. I realize it now when I should have realized so much sooner.” A hollow, humorless laugh and his form wavered. “If the void is not hollow, how could anything borne of it be? It was poorly planned from the start.”

“I thought that were you unable to dream as other bugs did, you would not be able to even be in pain. That the infection would be forever dormant and you could sleep peacefully. And yet.” His voice quavered, the form shivered, becoming something longer; almost like a carver hatcher, but with a distinct difference in size. Suddenly the after image of the king took up the entire room, the length of his body tightly contained by the walls. Cramped, trapped, he seemed to be, the ceiling a weight on his head. Or what they thought was one. The Hollow Knight had seen this form at the kingdom’s edge of course, though very long ago, but there was quite the contrast between the shining form of a living god, and a shed skin left to rot.

“We are sorry.” the voice took up whatever space remained in the room, which wasn’t much. “We are sorry we ever thought you had failed us. When it was us who had failed you. When... it was I who failed you.”

Hollow wasn’t sure how to react. So they didn’t. They looked at him blankly, as they always did.

“I wish you had a voice,” he mumbled. “So I could hear what you have to say.”

Even if they did, what could they say? To that? They shut down, staring straight ahead. There was so many things they could say, but none of them felt right. They could yell something about their siblings left to break in the pit by the sea, they could cry about how much the Radiance had hurt them, how they’d burned for his mistakes, how their siblings had done what they and the king could not with a relative ease. They could accuse him of killing the dreamers; their sister hadn’t even gotten to actually know her mother, and Quirrel had been an ally to their elder sibling, but without Monomon... who knew how he’d felt after she’d died. They could tell him about their mother, sealed away by her own hand, essentially torturing herself by going against her own nature so as to not repeat the past, and how she still talked about him with love in her voice, somehow.

They could tell him how they hated him.

They could tell him how they loved him.

A soft inhalation prompted Hollow to return from their thoughts; their father returned to his smaller form, looking up at them. He reached forward, slowly, to touch the vessel’s face; they nearly flinched away, but his action was so gentle they didn’t manage it. The king wiped at something with his thumb gently and pulled away to look at it. His finger was stained black; Hollow found themselves prompted by the sight to touch their own mask and feel the small rivulets of void leak from their sockets. It’d never happened before to them or any other vessel prior. They’d seen corpses with a similar symptom, suggesting their demise- and beyond that concern it was too foreign, too telling, too revealing. Hollow scrubbed furiously at their mask, spreading the mess and ultimately doing nothing to stop it. When the void continued to flow, they found themselves fleeing, running to the balcony, hunching over. They couldn’t let their father see this. Even now, after all he’d said, all he’d apologized for and granted them amnesty for. Even now, when they were allowed to think, to feel, to act. Even now, old habits would die hard.

The tears refused to stop so Hollow gave up, pulling up their cloak and burying their face in it, soaking the cloth with void, hiding their shame.

The Hollow Knight heard their father shuffle across the smooth black floor up beside them, brushing up to their side. They watched him as he looked over the balcony, something wistful in his hazy after image. “Do you remember this place?” he asked.

They hadn’t paid attention as they’d fled, so they poked their head up to take stock of their surroundings. During their meltdown the area had transformed, had opened up to a wider view of the bailey, framed by hanging vines and parapets that gleamed silver. It looked near the same as anywhere within the palace of the past, though it was made strictly for observation and respite. A balcony overlooking a garden, somehow still beautiful even as it lacked color, and a simple outcrop of stone serving as a bench. Their cradle, the music box and their mother’s chair still lingered, but it wasn’t their nursery anymore.

The knight did remember this place. It was shortly after they’d begun their training to strengthen their body. The king had told them to accompany him when not otherwise occupied and, for some reason, had stopped by this balcony, looking over the gardens that contributed to the growth that covered the interior. The queen’s doing, he’d explained fondly. He’d invited them up to the bench, which they diligently obeyed, not daring to sit. And then he looked at them. Just looked. They never knew what he was thinking at that time, if he would have said something or not. But he hadn’t, leaving them to stay there in silence until he deemed it time to move on. It was the place where, somehow, the vessel felt like they had just met for the first time.

It was odd to think it now, but it reminded them of the bench in Dirtmouth, where they listened to the Elderbug in the mornings when the light was growing brighter.

In their reminiscing, they’d forgotten to answer his question, to which the king prompted “You are allowed to answer.”

They nodded slowly.

“I see.”

The music box unwound on and on, the careful silence the king had set undisturbed by it.

“I loved you.” he admitted suddenly. “I forgot the path I set you on, and it was the reason you couldn’t contain Her. But even then... Now I am confronted with the knowledge that containment was never necessary in the first place.” he let out a small, quiet, unstable laugh, teetering on the edge of hysterical. “I threw away _children_ \-  _ my _ children- for  _nothing_.”

The knight stared .

“We are lucky to have had the little one. They released you from your service with your life in tact. How foolish was I, or how frightened, to not see how easy it could have been?”

If there was one thing they’d never considered their father, it was foolish. Or frightened. But now that he put it out there, they really couldn’t see him any other way. It felt mean to think like that, but even as they looked at him, they could see his claws clasp behind his back with the faintest tremble.

Was he... scared of them? 

No. That was ridiculous.

Though, maybe he was scared of what they would say if they could. The Hollow Knight didn’t even know what that might be. Nothing came to them. Or maybe he was scared of what they would do. They could leave, or strike him, or console him.

But instead they did... nothing. Just sat and stared and wept some more, their father becoming a clearer image before their eyes, though his light steadily began to fade. When he looked at them, sitting on the ground with black tears flowing freely, something in his eyes hardened, and he changed the subject.

“Your sister- Herrah’s child; she seems to be faring well, from what I can discern here.” he said. “Though I have no doubt she’d desire to never see me again.” he chuckled fondly. “She never did like me.”

Hollow tilted their head. Their sister had briefly spoken of her father’s meager attempts to socialize with her, and allegedly he had never taken the hint. She’d called him ‘tone deaf’. Perhaps she’d misjudged him? But her judge of character was usually pretty good, even if her stern demeanor hindered any chances of positive interaction.

“I never learned what her name was.” he added solemnly. Then shrugged. “I suppose it’s just as well.”

He turned and looked at them, shaking visibly now. His light wan, the delicate overgrowth curtained over the overlook, shrouding the nursery. The pair were a pale flicker that steadily dimmed as the plinking notes began to crawl, sparse and somber. The king placed a hand on the cradle and rocked it gently to the slowing tempo of the lullaby.

“You should go back to see her, now.” he murmured.

Mechanically, the Hollow Knight stood. At their full, lumbering height, they made him seem so insignificant, small; they had vague recollections of how he’d towered over them as they trained, as they grew, as he led them, his perfect and pure vessel, away from their birthplace and the clutchmate who had just managed to grasp onto the ledge.

The tiny clutchmate who’d stood up to everything taller and achieved the impossible, whereas they simply could not.

Hollow grasped the front of the Pale King’s robes, lifting him up off the floor, trembling with something, some emotion. He didn’t react.

“You’ll have to leave soon regardless.” he whispered. “I’d not send you away like this, but the dream is giving me no choice.”

They brought his face up to theirs, forcing him to look into their eyes, masks clacking loudly as they impacted.

“Hollow Knight,” their father spoke with a quiver in his tone. “you’ve always been faultless. Your sister gave you her name once; she sees your virtue without placing any expectations upon you. If you do not leave me, your real family will suffer.”

The robes grew thin enough that Hollow dropped him to the floor; he landed inelegantly but righted himself in a smooth motion. He was just a grey glimmer now, mask making an outline in the descending gloom, blossoming petals falling around the two of them, filling the cradle, drowning noise, catching in the eye holes of his mask.

“Go on.” he said wearily. “Don’t leave your family.”

Hollow wished they had the voice of the Radiance back, just so they could scream at him with all Her rage, hate, sickness, heat and misery. They wished to glow bright orange again, if only to dispel the pitch around them and make him visible again- something, _anything_ , to make him know.

**_ You, too, are my family!!  _ **

Their mind shrieked, they wished desperately to screech as loud and shrill as a belfly; anything to let _something_ out beyond their mask for him to see, or to hear. But their call was swallowed whole by yawning emptiness.

The knight awoke on the floor of the Black Egg in the same spot they had been, Dreamnail still in hand. They managed a shiver from the cold as they slowly rose. With one hand clutched tight around the nail, they pushed themselves up, acknowledging they were brushing up against the mask of their sibling and taking care not to fall on it. The movement was so gentle even the petals of the flowers they moved against were not knocked loose.

Hollow rose to a kneel, blankly staring at the ground. It was dark here, too, like the dream palace had been. And like the dream, there were lumafly lanterns dotted about to serve as tiny beacons. Though they would soon age, Hollow realized.

The tiny lumafly lights shone down to illuminate the ground where the grave lay, almost wreathing it in a pale, holy sort of light. The void even seemed to shrink beneath it.

And it _was_ shrinking, actually. Hollow shook themselves from their trance and leaned forward to inspect the receding puddle. The charm that was there prior had seemed to have disappeared, but upon dropping the nail and clutching around the stone at the bottom of the puddle, eventually finding a hard edge and lifting; the object parted from the void with a strange snapping sound, allowing the vessel to retrieve the little object hidden by a large black clump of sludge that ran out through their claws.

The void slowly, almost with reluctance, slipped off the charm, spattering onto the ground. It revealed itself to be an ash white, with eyes of the mask pure, empty black. It was missing a crown, but there was no mistaking who it was meant to be.

Hollow couldn’t help but put it close to their chest, the place where they wished a heart could beat.

They were glad they had no voice, not even the shriek of the Radiance to cry out with. They wouldn’t want their sister to hear their sobbing and worry herself.

When Hollow had returned to Dirtmouth via the stag station (they had neither the strength nor limbs to climb out the way they came), a raging flurry of red stomped her way over. Though they probably should have, they felt neither fear nor guilt nor shame. They simply held the charm and nail in their hand a little tighter.

“Where have you been?!” their sister demanded. “Are you _ trying _ to make both of our lives more difficult?” They calmly shook their head ‘no’. “Then why must you  _ insist  _ upon hazardous excursions?! What could be worth the stitches you’ve pulled?!”

They held out the dreamnail and the charm, hoping that would explain well enough. She only seemed to recognize the charm, to some degree, but paid no heed to the nail.

“A relic of the king’s?” her voice went sharp. Hollow tilted their head in a ‘so-so’ manner. They didn’t really want to suggest that it was all that remained of him, lest she run it through with her needle; it was better not to underestimate her disapproval of their mutual father.

Her eyes narrowed. “This is the charm the ghost left behind.” she stated. Hollow nodded.

“How did you manage to retrieve it?” she asked. Hollow gave her a shrug with one shoulder. She huffed at them.

“Very well. Keep your secrets. But I expect you to keep that charm to yourself.” she told them sharply, to which Hollow nodded without complaint. 

“And you _will_ come home so I may sew you up again.” Again, a firm nod with no expression of complaint.

Her head titled, expressing her surprise and placation at their sudden easy compliance, but it only bothered her for so long; she grabbed hold of their hand and decisively marched them to their lodgings.

Their sister’s threat of stitching their wounds back up didn’t last long; it was lucky for them that the world of dreams, when entered normally, did not transfer any injury to the body in the world of the waking, and so only one stitch had been popped and needed to be repaired. This did not stop her from grumbling about it.

Upon being released, Hollow took their keepsakes- the Dreamnail and white charm- and placed them at their nestside; their sister claimed they should put them on something like a nightstand instead of the dirt floor, so they settled on placing them in a bowl. They wanted to be able to grasp it easily if sleep evaded them. She seemed exasperated but didn’t chastise any further.

Next, they wandered over to the chest where she kept miscellaneous supplies; a little of most everything was there, and although neither of them had particularly needed to write anything down, their sistertook precautions to a fault, insisting that everything she collected might be needed one day. After some digging, Hollow managed to excavate sticks of thin charcoal as a writing instrument and sheafs of yellowing parchment, ragged but whole.

They knelt at the main table and rapped their claws against to to garner her attention, beckoning when she turned. She complied with a suspicious look, walking slowly to their side. When they did nothing she inquired as to if they had some injury she had missed, then proceeded to look for it without a response.

Hollow picked up a piece of parchment and began to write as she inspected them. They were never formally taught how, as there was never any need, but they’d learned by watching mostly their father, but also their mother, knights and unnamed scribes while pretending not to look. Though their handwriting wasn’t very good, perhaps even illegible, they still managed to get something down.

_ Sorry for worrying you. _

They slipped the paper to their sister, who looked down from her work, processed the words, and stared.

“It’s fine.” she spoke weakly. “Your... restlessness is understandable, and perhaps I’ve been too strict. It might be best if I simply- accompanied you from now on.”

Hollow found themselves internally frowning.  _Everywhere?_

“No.” she said firmly. “Only any major excursions or something of the like.”

_ Good. Glad. _

A pause in which she stared at the writing on the paper, fidgeting slightly. She looked up to meet their gaze where they waited patiently.

“I didn’t realize you knew how to write.” she said in a stilted tone. “It would have made communi- no, never mind.” she’d almost scolded them again after admitting she might’ve been too strict; Hollow let out a small puff in place of a laugh. “Where, or when, did you learn?”

The real answer might’ve displeased her so they offered her a shrug. She grunted irritatedly.

They picked up their charcoal stick and scribbled down something else; she leaned forward with rapt attention as they did.

_Did learn your name when we were small._ Hollow scrawled.  _ But forgot. Tell me again? _

Their sister tilted her head at the message; whether she was struggling to read the writing or interpret the meaning, they couldn’t tell. But they waited patiently all the same.

Finally she spoke, with a voice all too familiar; they could see the tiny larva of a time long past crawling up to their legs, lifting their mask to introduce herself with a large grin.

“Hornet.” she replied.

**Author's Note:**

> written by a member of the “i want to beat up pk for being a *spectacular* species of moron but also recognize that he’d let me because he thinks he deserves it” club
> 
> re-reading this i realized that it sort of draws the inference that ghost and pk are the same person; this wasn’t my intention. in the context of this fic, theyre both hks family/ people they wanted to know better and wanted to love, so i drew similarities between them. much obliged, matpat.
> 
> thank you for reading! ^^


End file.
